Beckon, golden woods to a fallen stairs and nothing more. Our wings spread, dark, and we never leave, but cover the night.
His ceremony no longer comes easy, in the dusk of hair like fencing wire, and hooves, scraping the linoleum. Time has carved and prodded him into a stout, autumnal rind, and a tail dulled in its thrashing. His wife and daughter laugh, and clap. They've never seen him cry -- tears hissing on the grate, angry pools around the record needle. Never showing their backs, they bring a tray of cupcakes, and beer, and leave it at the altar.
Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass., USA. Her poems have appeared in The Horror Zine, Sirens Call, Raven Cage, and many more. She is the author of five poetry books and a short fiction collection. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.